


Ride It

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [8]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Dirty Talk, F/M, Friction Kink, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Orgasm, Out of Character, Smut, Thighs, Wet & Messy, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier are hitting the town for a night of drink and delirium. You’re a small tavern-keep with a daydream involving the Witcher's thighs. A perfect storm brews. There's no plot here.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 12
Kudos: 187





	Ride It

Geralt is wearing _the pants._

To be fair, he has no idea what power _the pants_ have over you. He doesn’t know that you’ve been eyeing off the exaggerated, reinforced seam that runs down each leg at the centre vertically, imagining how the textured black fabric and the warmth of his tense thigh would feel against your cunt.

Perhaps if he knew, he wouldn’t wear them so often.

It’s a night for celebration; both Geralt and Jaskier had tumbled into your inn towards the middle of the night, already on the wagon to sloshed-ville, a stolen mug still gripped in the bard’s fingers as they made their weaving way to the bar. They were bickering about something to do with Roach getting to eat before Jaskier. Regardless of their jabs at one another, you could feel the ease radiate from them, and you’d felt warmed; in all the years that they’d frequented your tavern, you’d probably only seen Geralt smile twice.

Tonight he was _grinning._ Tonight he was wearing _the pants._

“We’ve coin to spend and you’ve mouths to drink with, so _what say you,_ new friends?” Jaskier had addressed the small crowd of regulars in a joyful yodel, and in no time at all there was a little uproar of a shindig unfolding. You kept busy because the free-flowing food and drink was excellent business for you, and because it meant you would not stare at the Witcher.

They came to your little establishment again and again because Jaskier insisted that you cooked the best chicken and leek pies he’d ever had the privilege of putting in his mouth, and because he liked that you shared his fondness for vintage wines and exotic liquors. Geralt simply went where there was food and ale, but in time even he engaged in occasional banter with you. How could you not feel butterflies when he focused the weight of his leonine stare upon you?

Jaskier was playing at song-bird the first night you’d noticed _the pants._ You were daydreaming, staring at Geralt, who was facing the stage and unconsciously moving his right leg to the fast-tempo beat of the song. Captivated, you’d thought of the powerful whip of his muscle beneath the fabric, and had wondered what it would feel like to just sit in his lap. When he’d noticed you staring, you’d felt washed with heat like a lick of summer sunshine, and had flitted to the kitchen to hide, busying yourself with washing dishes to occupy your wandering mind.

And on this night, with Jaskier boasting the success of a show that paid him _far_ too much coin, and a hunt that saw Geralt’s pockets heavy, they were intent on starting a two-man riot in your well-kept place.

You’d taken Jaskier’s arm, confused about Geralt’s demeanour. You’d never seen him so freely expressing his emotions; he laughed at jokes, drunk deeply of liquor, and applauded when a man performed a clumsy jig to the chorus of a lewd song that you had no doubt the bard was responsible for writing.

“I uh, found this… elixir in his bag.” Jaskier confesses, trying his best shy-schoolboy smile on you, “It said ‘happiness’ on the label. I was _curious_ , so I…” He shrugs, “I dripped a bit into his ale.”

“You _drugged_ him?!” You hiss incredulously, gripping the bard’s upper arm hard enough to leave imprints of your disappointed fingerprints.

“Ow- _ow!_ Leave off, woman!” He swats you away, even as you glower. “He hasn’t been sleeping, okay? Hasn’t done much more than grunt in over a week. And look how _happy_ he is now!”

Geralt is attempting to balance a spoon on the tip of his nose as others at the table copy, the clink of the silverware making you cradle your face in your hand. _Gods above._

Jaskier winks and returns to the party, and you make a mental note to put a live toad in his bed tonight. As the festivities trickle into the late hours, patrons stumble out of the inn, eventually thinning the crowd to the two original merry-making men and yourself. You’d started drinking to cope with the chaos, and found yourself now in the grasp of a pleasant tipsiness. Jaskier is slumped over the table, passed out from an excess of wine and exhaustion. Geralt is still awake, seeming rather lucid, albeit languid and loose with his movements, sipping from his cup. Witcher stamina, you suppose, or maybe Jaskier’s ‘happiness’ elixir. Sighing at the thought, you slink over to keep him company.

“May I get’cha anything— _oop!_ ” You trip over someone’s lost shoe, and he reaches out to steady you with his massive hands, the both of you giggling. Standing over him, you grin. “Thanks. Anything you need?”

“No.” Geralt murmurs, glancing at Jaskier, “Unless you have a wheelbarrow to cart that lump upstairs.”

“Actually,” You muse, helpfully, “I _do_ have one out the back, I’ll just—”

Geralt stops you by gripping your wrist, but you’ve turned already, and the awkward momentum makes you lose balance again. You start with a sound and fall into his chest, surprised, and ultimately end up in a position that has featured in so many of your daydreams; his legs are splayed wide, and you’re astride one massive thigh, his hands holding you for balance.

He can’t miss the way your pulse picks up in your breast, or the way your lips part to allow for a bite of air, sucked in sharp. He certainly can’t miss the soak of your arousal between your legs as he breathes in, and you see his cat-like pupils dilate, ebony devouring gold. There’s a tense moment where neither of you move, trying to understand how best to navigate this, but then he clenches the muscle of his leg and shifts you slightly forward, towards him.

That wonderful seam licks _right_ up the centre of your aching cunt and you moan lasciviously without intending to, pressing your pelvis down, arching the small of your back. He responds to your reaction with a snarl that tapers into a purr, his fingers slinking to your backside to knead the supple flesh there. Unable to help yourself, you rock once, feeling the pulse in your clit, the rush of blood; his pants already have a wet spot on them.

And then you remember the ‘happiness’. _Damn it._

“Geralt,” You gasp, stilling, unwilling to take advantage of him, even as your body screams _traitor_ , “Jaskier—”

“Drugged me earlier.” He rasps, pulling you forward again with a more forceful grip. You bite off a squeal. “Wore off hours ago.”

“But you…?” You’re panting, and at his urging, you begin to purposefully grind in a rhythm against his flexing thigh, that wonderful seam stroking you as you do, as he watches you like a lord of legend, his posture princely, as you take your pleasure from the strength of him. It feels _incredible._

“I didn’t want to be a Witcher tonight.” He whispers, and somewhere in your lust-haze, you understand. He could _pretend._ It was an excuse to let go, and he is giving you permission to use him to do the same.

The rawness of it strikes you, and you find his mouth; he kisses you and draws fevered groans from your lungs, swallowing them like honey-mead, toying with your tongue as you buck in his grasp. Your fingers fist the fabric of his shirt and when you break for breath, you’re openly mewling, the long column of your throat exposed as you throw your head back and ride his thigh and those _blessed pants_ with short, frantic thrusts of your hips, using your bare feet as purchase on the floor. His eyes are lighthouses of delight, focused upon you in your tempest, guiding you as the waves begin to crest and your sweat-licked body threatens to shudder apart. Your cunt is dressing his leg in wet slick, the dark fabric obscenely decorated with the frenzy and scent of you.

“ _Come_ for me, darling thing,” He tempts at your ear in the willow-bark rasp of his voice, “Come apart, _feel_ me beneath you, _fuck_ my flesh and _let go._ ”

You’re the tight horse-hair of a violin bow, twisted and _twisted_ in tension, every snapping synapse in your nerve-fucked body an orchestral hum, and he, your conductor, coaxes the crescendo from you. When you come it’s like a suspension of time, the shattering of clocks and hairline fractures in dresser-mirrors; you think you might be screaming but you don’t know, think you might have torn his shirt but you don’t know. The orgasmic clench of your cunt is a metronome rhythm for him to write his symphony, and he holds you as you jerk and gasp and wash his shaking thigh with your release, the wetness dripping from the underside of the chair. That seam is your anchor and your tail-wind at the same time; the roughness of it tortures your clit, begs every sensibility from you until you have nothing left but the bones of your shipwreck scattered across the jagged rocks of his person, the chant of his name the last wind of your sails.

The entire time, he _purrs._

You slump forward, and he shifts his hands when strength fails you, holding you against his huge chest. You feel lax and fluid and feathery, like spiderwebs caught on a lazy breeze. The steady, slow drum of his pulse on your heated cheek soothes you, returns you to reality, and you smile at the sensation of his fingers in your hair, massaging your scalp.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” You finally confess, drunk on the lewd fuckery of it all more so than the wine you’ve consumed.

Softly, he _hmms,_ and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Why do you think I chose to wear these pants today?”

The look on your face makes him laugh, and you can’t help but join him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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